


The Tamer

by coyote_nebula



Series: Minefield [6]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Death, Baby Damian Wayne, Brainwashing, Cults, Damian Wayne Has Issues, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Damian Wayne-centric, Eventual Happy Ending, Father Figures, Gen, Harm to Animals, Hurt Damian Wayne, Hurt/Comfort, Lazarus Pit (DCU), Lazarus Pit Madness, Mercy Killing, Nanda Parbat, Parent Talia al Ghul, Poison, Symbolism, Talia assigns chores, Talia has hyperosmia, The League of Assassins (DCU)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28952292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coyote_nebula/pseuds/coyote_nebula
Summary: Damian al Ghul is the Heir of the Demon. He's also the heir to a nameless, mysteriously absentee father.Learning to live up to both is less fun than it sounds.---This is the Batfamily Vengefully Kidnaps a Kid from the League of Assassins story, the sequel to Harvest. And a very (very) loose adaptation of Jason and the Golden Fleece.
Relationships: Jason Todd & Damian Wayne, Ra's al Ghul & Damian Wayne, Talia al Ghul & Damian Wayne, Talia al Ghul & Jason Todd
Series: Minefield [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2044210
Comments: 55
Kudos: 196





	1. The Golden Fleece: Responsibility

**Author's Note:**

> This is a direct sequel to Harvest. I can't make time go in a straight line to save my life, though, so it doesn't begin at the end of that one. Tags and description to be updated as relevant.
> 
> Alright: so the whole Bruce being dead but not really thing? Doesn’t happen in this AU. I can handle Jason, Dick, Tim, even Damian (albeit just barely, damn) “dying” as far as the family knows, but when it’s all the kids without Bruce, I Just Can’t. It’s over the line between ‘delicious escapism’ and ‘causes me actual suffering.’ That being said, the arc does have a few interesting developments. So, I reserve the right to remix it as the mood strikes me.  
> tldr; we’ve definitely splintered from canon at this point.
> 
> This chapter deals heavily with violence perpetrated against, for, and by animals. It’s ostensibly for consumption... except when it’s not. It's about working farm-life level graphic, and assassin cult level squicky. Jason alluded to it briefly in Harvest, and it’s distasteful but there is a point. I swear.

Damian al Ghul learned responsibility in his sixth year.

The associated hike up Mount Parbat, though grueling, was one of his gentler learning experiences in retrospect. The primary difficulty was merely the shortness of his legs— Otherwise, he was able and fit, the task straightforward and bloodless. Mother even participated.

Far below the peak lay the ancient city, dwarfed by the sweep of distant crags and barren desert with tantalizing specks of green clinging to hidden water sources. He could see so far that he imagined all the world’s civilization packed into the horizon line, inseparable as the grains of sand in the dunes and as easy to snatch up.

Mother’s voice cut through his wondering. “Everything you see, and far more,” she said, “will someday be yours to subdue.” The slow wave of her long hair hid her smile. “That is why your name is  _ tamer,  _ Damian. That is the fate you are Heir to.”

His little chest thrilled. “I will be the Head of the Demon?”

“Yes, my son. Someday.” She gently cupped his chin, dark eyes somber. “Until then, you are a member of the Body— you live to serve the Head, as do I.”

Servitude was a familiar, but one-sided, concept to Damian. Servants brought food, cleaned rooms, washed his hair and asked after his needs at all hours. He nor Mother ever did such things. They studied and trained by day, ate, drank, and slept by night, but they did not serve.

Mother answered his confusion with beckoning steps. Climbing down the mountain was easier, but edged his young body closer and closer to the limit. His trainers distracted him from exertion by working his mind; he swallowed his thirst and did as he’d been taught.

“Mother,” he asked. “Where is my father?”

Mother’s father was the Demon’s Head, usually away from Nanda Parbat to tend to his work.  _ Damian’s  _ father must likewise be very important to have the Heir as his son, and his absence was surely for similar reasons.

She didn't answer immediately. “Your father watches the rest of the earth.”

That made sense. Obviously he could not be  _ here  _ if he was ruling far away. That must be why he was entrusted to Mother’s preparation. “Will I meet him?”

“When you are ready for your inheritance, yes.”

“I am,” he said, a statement he would find cringingly naive mere hours from now.

Mother laughed softly. “You have much yet to learn.”

Reaching the foot of the mountain was only a checkpoint in his lesson— Mother did not turn towards the cool comfort of their chambers, and she waved away the attendant offering water. Damian’s objection crackled in his parched throat.

“The needs of the Body are before our own,” she said cryptically, a hand hot on his shoulder so he didn’t stray.

In the mountain’s shadow, past the stone outcrop, under a carved arch and down stone steps lay the caverns, flame-lit halls inhabited by prisoners of the League and animals bound for the arena. Damian spent time watching the latter on a regular basis, and the path they tread to the leopard enclosure was a familiar one.

Three cats looked up from their lounging when he and Mother appeared. “These are pets of yours, are they not?” she said. “Would you like to feed them?”

Damian’s exhaustion and shaky legs were forgotten. He nodded eagerly up at Mother, for mealtime was an exhilarating spectacle. He soaked in the lightning snarls and flashing claws competing for limp yard birds with wide eyes whenever he got the opportunity.

Mother approved of his enthusiasm, but he found it wavering when an attendant brought six chicken crates to the cage bars. The inhabitants’ soft clucking attracted the cats’ attention— as one they took to their feet and scrambled with bared fangs for pacing room at the front.

“You may begin,” said Mother, clasping her hands behind her back the way Grandfather did when he expected his orders to manifest. “Then we will refresh ourselves.”

He peered in at the round-eyed birds. “They are alive,” he said hesitantly. All the feedings he’d seen before used  _ dead  _ birds. Food, like the white meat that appeared on his plate adjacent chickpeas and grape leaves.

Mother crouched by his side. “You don’t want your leopards to hunger, do you?”

A draft chilled the sweat-damp nape of his neck. He pictured the desperate fear, the snapping bone and torn flesh. “But… it will hurt.”

Her hands settled softly on his shoulders. “We do what is necessary, but we need not cause needless suffering. What must you do?”

Feed the cats, but spare the birds. His ears rang, tired legs weak. “Kill them,” he whispered.

She brushed a damp curl off his forehead. One of the leopards rattled the iron grating impatiently, and he flinched. “When you are Head of the Demon,” she murmured, “you must nurture the Body. What makes you  _ worthy  _ is more than your willingness— it is the honor and love you maintain in doing it. This is a kindness, my son.”

He swallowed and nodded tightly. Airy detachment buoyed his hand as it reached for a crate latch, gently withdrew the brown feathered hen within, stroked away her anxiety before arranging his fingers about her neck—

—and swung his arm before he could think any more about it.

The bird was heavy, and his muscles tired— it squawked and flapped in distress, he hadn’t killed it, he’d only injured it, and in a guilty panic he swung it around again, much harder this time—

A disgusting crunch preceded the sudden release of the weight as the body flew into the cage bars, quickly pulled through by the ravenous claws within.

Feathers flew everywhere as the three cats exploded into a vicious, snarling squabble until one secured the prize and stalked away, a stream of blood dripping after it.

Several shocked seconds passed before Damian realized the head was still in his hand.

He hadn’t meant to do that, only to be  _ sure,  _ to be a lesser evil than the vicious jaws. Now he stared into empty eyes that burned alert only seconds ago. He’d snuffed out that light.

Finally he looked up at Mother, who was watching placidly. “Well done,” she said, and offered to take the head.

Shakily, he handed it over. She tossed it easily through the bars, where the other two cats lunged for the bite-sized morsel. Mother gestured to the other five crates. “You will perform this task until further notice. I trust you to honor their sacrifice.”

His stomach roiled against his terrible thirst, but he stepped forward. Mother was right. Without him, both the leopards and the birds would suffer. Delaying that truth would only prolong his own suffering.

Crate by crate, he was faster, cleaner, and more numbed with each. Their heads flopped on broken necks, wings flailing in what Mother reassured him was reflex and not true life. All died. All went to the leopards. He tried not to see or hear the carnage.

The last bird disappeared into a greedy mouth, and Mother extended her hand to him. He took the rare opportunity to hold it, stifling the building pinch of tears as they ascended out of the caverns and into the sun baked warmth of day.

The dry heat cleansed the damp chill from his lungs. Steadied, he stood taller with the knowledge that Mother was pleased with his progress. Surely Grandfather would also look upon his new responsibility with approval.

Maybe his father, wherever he was, would be just as proud.

——

Months passed. Feeding the leopards— killing the chickens— became a rote chore that was eventually augmented with the more involved dispatch of goats. The more banal uses of a blade, too, became familiar with each severed throat, though he felt guilt over relying on the strength of prison minders to stun the animals senseless rather than accomplishing it himself. Mother assured him that there was time to grow.

As for the chickens, he had devised a less traumatic method for them— a firm hold on the body and the head facilitated a quick and unexpected separation of the cervical vertebrae, effecting instant insensibility— he had his anatomy lessons to thank for that.

Toward the end of the year, Grandfather gifted him his first sword.

Until now, he had trained daily with practice swords— wood, and then blunt metal— but this was his introduction to  _ real  _ swordplay, where the stakes were paid in blood instead of bruises. He was eager, well aware that a true warrior didn’t go to war with classroom toys.

Damian could hardly take his eyes from the twining snakes, the mirror polish, the keen edge. Although he fought to keep his excitement dignified, his voice squeaked on the ‘thank you.’ 

Grandfather softened, strong hand falling on his shoulder and small smile creasing his mouth. He was an austere man, intense in all things; as terrifying as his anger was, as intimidating his mind, his blessing was just as fierce. “It is well earned, Damian.”

The praise filled his vacant corners, the spaces his doubt curled in. Reminded him a symbol of his birthright lay across his palms.

He wondered, suddenly, what symbol his father may provide from  _ his _ domain before refocusing.

A large arena was carved out of the caverns; it was variously used for training or competition. Today, it was where he received his first sword, and he knew he was expected to use it.

Mother and Grandfather left him in the center of the ring, where he waited cautiously but confidently for a teacher or trap to spring upon him.

The door at the other end opened.

Mother offered calm commentary. “Many warriors have learned from her here, but that time is at an end. To die in service to the Heir is a much greater mercy than to waste away in the dark.”

It was one of his leopards. The old one, the one he gave the tender meat to and provided oils to keep her coat shining. The one with the lightened fur he had just this morning chanced a hand through.

Momentarily, he was too stunned to move. Mother’s implicit command balked at the cat he’d looked after and come to know.

The leopard, however, knew her purpose, and lunged.

Narrowly escaping a chestful of claws, evading the swipe of yellowed teeth, he sought his opening as he’d been trained. Inserting the blade at the junction of neck and jaw, severing the arteries in one smooth motion, that was simply muscle memory. Unconscious.

The dying convulsions of an animal he’d nurtured…

The yellow eyes were still glazing over, the last frantic breath leaving her lungs; he was on his knees in the puddle of hot blood, stroking the spotted fur and speaking softly when Grandfather spoke from just behind.

“You’ve granted her the kindness of a quick and noble end,” he said.

Authority,  _ knowingness,  _ permeated his voice, and Damian found his conflicted heart calmed. He stood and nodded, loose pants drenched in red. Yes. It was a fitting closure for a warrior, and he would always remember her sacrifice.

Several weeks later, he entered his chambers to find another gift draped over his bed.

A spotted pelt.

In his sixth year, Damian al Ghul learned culpability.


	2. The Golden Fleece: Charity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman's not the only one who adopts strays.  
> Some are even more twisted.

Damian al Ghul was in his seventh year when he learned charity. 

People of various stations passed through Nanda Parbat. Most inhabitants were employed in seeing to the Hand’s more prosaic requirements— cooking, cleaning, laundering, grounds maintenance— and were of little interest beyond their present function. Others were transient, like Damian’s teachers— when he’d absorbed everything they had to offer, they vanished and a new tutor materialized. More relevant individuals included the Hand— Mother’s agents— as well as the flighty individuals that came and went through the prison cells in the course of their usefulness to the Body.

Damian lived apart. His breed was suited to higher pursuits, and outside of providing guidance, associating with inferiors was a detrimental waste of time. Mother ensured that servants seeing to his immediate needs venerated him accordingly, professionally distant at all times. Members of the Hand were much more tempting, for their work was mysterious and veiled with a dark glamor, but she also made sure to obscure their affairs.

“In time, you will be essential to the Hand. That time is not yet,” she would say, impervious to his dissatisfaction.

Being small and silent, however, lended itself to overhearing idle chatter. And when the chatter reached a new level of excitement the same day Mother summoned him to the receiving hall, he was already anxious to be part of this novel but as-yet unknown event.

The appearance of two ninja with a shuffling, vacant-eyed young man between them was underwhelming at first glance. It was difficult to imagine what use their prisoner could possibly be— Damian was sure the lowest of the lavatory scrubbers could outwit the oaf standing crookedly before him.

“What’s wrong with him?” he asked, stymied.

“He was heir to a warrior,” Mother said. “One of his master’s enemies stole and maimed him.”

Damian found the thought.... uncomfortable. After all, an heir was precious, and not easily replaced. He assumed if the Demon lost  _ Damian,  _ the resulting havoc would be stopped only by restoration or  _ revenge.  _ Mother and Grandfather would be enraged, for certain, and surely his father would be just as incensed. Maybe even enough to personally cross the seas in search of him.  __

Of course, if Damian was found in a state like  _ this,  _ he might as well have been killed. A crippled mute was no use as heir of anything.

“... What of his master?”

Her eyes were scorching. “His master has refused to avenge him.”

Damian scowled, indignant on the cripple’s behalf. That was an unforgivable breach of honor, the mark of a degenerate coward. “Why?”

“That is the way of the outside world, Damian. Its scourge manifests in infidelity.” Mother drew a tightly measured breath and straightened her rigid posture. “We will take pity on his plight,” she said, “and he will be gifted a new master.”

Damian accompanied them deep into the caverns, through locked gates and deferential guards. He’d never been here, though he knew the warnings well— the Lazarus Pit.

The effects were familiar. Resurrects— target ninja— confined to the caverns were primarily agents that had been killed (presumably in action) and revived in the Pit. Dead that entered were nearly always  _ incomplete  _ when they exited. Feral, easily goaded into mortal combat, and as such they were useful as training tools.

Other than Grandfather, his exposure to its effects on the living was virtually non-existent. Based on his limited observation, the living that entered the Pit were restored in full, strengthened even.

They were also filled with a horrific, agonized  _ fury  _ that made the chambers ring with terrible screams and lethal intent toward anyone stupid enough to get in their way.

The mute paid no special mind to the green glow of the Pit, not even when he was led directly up to the edge of the glassy pool. Damian, however, watched with rapt attention. “Will the Pit repair him?”

Mother gestured to the agent gripping the oblivious mute’s arm. “We shall see.”

An obedient nod and the mute was shoved in. The agent stepped well back from the splash and churning struggle while the other cracked a small gilded case.

The pool was clearly to deep to stand in. A choked yelp, and the dark head slipped under.

Then, nothing.

Damian glanced at the others. They were alert, but he was the only one that flinched when the pool erupted with a surge of bright white foam and a soul wrenching cry.

The frail young man that entered leapt out as a wild animal.

Damian barely suppressed the impulse to shrink back when his heaving face lit briefly on  _ him, _ eyes black beneath dripping black and white strands.

A pneumatic  _ pop,  _ and the young man jerked before slumping to the floor in a wet puddle.

One of the agents, the one with the case, looked up from the sights of a tranquilizer gun.

“To a cell,” said Mother. While they were gathering up their prisoner, she turned to Damian. “He will need  _ much  _ retraining, if he can be saved at all. Until he’s proven trustworthy, he will be confined with the others under your care.”

All beasts were now under Damian’s oversight, including the Pit resurrects. It was no different than looking after the cats (although he delegated much of the work with his new authority over the prison minders). Like the leopards, they required food, water and a hygienic enclosure.

Also like the leopards, they would try to kill anyone that got too close.

Despite being human, their  _ humanity  _ was on par with the animals— they too would gladly eat fresh kill. Damian detested the needless waste, however, and provided vegetable protein instead. Humans were not obligate carnivores.

He intended to do the same with his new charge… as soon as the incessant howling quieted.

The prisoner shook the bars of his cell and paced its short length for two days, clamoring at passersby, until thirst subdued him enough to allow food and water to be placed inside. 

Resurrects were normally less  _ vocal.  _ Normally, they were sedate until provoked.

_ This one  _ protested any and everything. Loudly.

Damian was wearily questioning the wisdom of Mother’s pity and contemplating a  _ muzzle  _ when, on the fifth day, the prisoner was lucid.

Bright green eyes, dark and animalistic until now, were pinched under the white streak of hair as Damian approached with food and water. He was sitting with his back to the wall, away from the overturned water bowl and accompanying puddle.

“Tt. Spill your water again, and I will cease to bring you any,” Damian muttered. He didn’t know if the prisoner understood Arabic, but it was an empty threat anyway— at least, it never worked on the leopards. He put his load on the stone floor and stood to assess his charge’s disposition.

The prisoner didn’t reply— he was watching Damian warily, with either disbelief or confusion at what he saw. He was dirty and haggard from the constant rigors of the Pit. But young. A little younger than the youngest of the League members. A teenager.

Resurrects were non-verbal. This was not a resurrect, but he was astounded for  _ several  _ reasons when the prisoner spoke in English, with a voice destroyed from days of abuse and little moisture.

“You’re pretty short to be an assassin,” he rasped.

Damian wrinkled his nose in a scowl. “I am  _ Warith Alshaytan,”  _ he retorted, scoffing when the prisoner remained unimpressed. “I am the Heir of the Demon.”

He waited for shock at this revelation. The proper response to accidentally maligning the Heir was some combination of profuse groveling, offers of firstborns and/or terrified weeping. But the prisoner only raised an eyebrow. “Good for you. Where am I?”

Mother was right. The prisoner was in need of  _ extensive  _ relearning. With that in mind he smoothed his bristling indignance and cultivated the put-upon patience a simpleton deserved. “You are in the caverns of  _ Alyad.  _ The Hand of the Demon.”

The prisoner’s tone was annoyingly deadpan. “Weird. I could have sworn this dungeon belonged to the League of Assassins…. That  _ was  _ Talia al Ghul I just chatted with, wasn’t it?”

Damian sensed a layer of Mother’s plan he was unaware of. But the prisoner could not know that, so he ignored the remark in favor of getting on with the work. “I will not open the door. Do not ask,” Damian said firmly. “Use your bedding to soak up the spill. Then you may have a fresh pallet.”

The prisoner’s eyes narrowed even as his eyebrows raised. “How  _ old are you?” _

Damian’s patience was rapidly shrinking. “You prefer a damp bed?”

He huffed wearily and rolled his eyes.

“I am your master,” Damian said, looking down his nose. “You must obey me.”

The prisoner had the audacity to  _ laugh.  _ Damian was taken aback.  _ No one  _ openly mocked him. Not unless they had a death wish.

Cracked lips stretched into a crooked smirk. “Sorry. That was really damn cute.”

Damian could  _ defeat _ this peon if he weren’t under explicit orders not to open the cell. “Tt. Very well,” he snapped. “Steep in disease if you wish.” He pushed the food and water inside and left. He had a full day and no time to waste on an imbecile.

The next day the prisoner was absent from the cell, affording the opportunity to maintain the inside. He noted with dismay that the food and water from yesterday were untouched— that meant he'd had little water and nothing to eat at all since his arrival. It was within Damian’s bounds to have him forced, but he’d rather leave it as last resort.

After tidying the cell, a commotion drew him down the corridor to the arena.

The sight of the prisoner chasing a chicken around the arena was almost comical, if not for the fact that once he caught it the half-savage seemed at a loss as to how to kill it; he ended up swinging it against the wall. Damian winced— it took several swings.

From the mangled carcasses available at the next day’s leopard feeding, he gathered that the prisoner had inherited his old task. In that case, he would not tolerate incompetence in an underling.

The prisoner was in his cell, absently toying with a feather. He stiffened at the hen under Damian’s arm.

“I’m not touching that,” he growled.

Damian rolled his eyes. “This task is yours now, and you must learn to do it correctly. Your work yesterday was… unsatisfactory.”

The prisoner listened with a dismissive scowl as Damian explained, but he flinched back in shock at the live demonstration.

“What the fu— what the  _ hell,  _ kid!” he exclaimed, staring at the insensibly flapping body where Damian had laid it aside.

“That is the most humane way.”

The prisoner gaped. _ “Humane? _ I just watched a five year old wring a chicken’s neck, from  _ an underground cell.”  _

Damian bristled. “I am  _ seven.” _

The laugh was unamused. “Oh! Okay then,  _ seven,  _ ‘scuse  _ me.” _

“Enough,” Damian said irritably. “That is the way you will do it. It makes no difference to the leopards, but it means less suffering for the birds.” He bent to retrieve the hen, now going still. He would give it to the cats on the way out.

“Kid. Wait,” the prisoner said. He’d come close to the bars, and in the better light Damian could see dark bruises on his skin, dried blood in the corner of his mouth. “Why do you know so much about —“ he waved a hand vaguely at the chicken.

Damian sighed. “I oversee the care of the animals. Including you.”

This didn’t seem to satisfy his question or banish his look of horror, but Damian had other things to see to— his studies, another training session— and he departed.

It was several days before they crossed paths again. Damian arranged his affairs at will for a large part of the afternoon to facilitate the keeping of the animals, and often his visit happened to coincide with the prisoner’s prescribed training time in the arena.

The leopards’ food birds were now satisfactory. Despite his initial resistance, the prisoner was indeed capable of following directions. Perhaps he need not stay down here much longer— the presence of a sentient and apparently innocent person in the dim stone cell block was beginning to wear strangely on Damian.

So when his approach to the prisoner’s cell was pierced by sounds of struggle and cries of fury, he picked up the pace.

Several prison minders were crowded inside, pinning the thrashing occupant to the floor. Mother stood outside, watching with arms crossed.

He couldn’t see past their packed bodies, just that all of them were almost thrown clear at the same time a wretched, agonized howl erupted from the prisoner.

“Stop at once!” he cried— that was  _ his _ prisoner, and he hadn’t ordered anything be done to him, especially nothing that should produce  _ that  _ sound—

Mother seized the back of his neck before he could run inside, he nails digging into his skin like teeth. “Quiet.”

“You gave him to  _ me,”  _ he objected.  _ “I  _ manage him.”

The sharp bite of her nails tightened. “He belongs to the  _ Hand,  _ which  _ I  _ am,” she hissed. “I am taking action for his repeated refusal to train.”

Damian strained to see the prisoner. If she had just asked  _ him,  _ he may have solved this peacefully. Now they would reinforce his suspicion and cooperation would be even farther out of reach. Any _ idiot  _ knew that’s how animals worked. 

The minders got to their feet, poles in hand and the prisoner held at length between them by a nose ring. Blood streamed from his face as he tried— unsuccessfully— to flinch away from the awkward weight pushing and pulling against the sensitive wound.

Bulls were ringed at a young age— Damian oversaw the procedure, chose the time, measured sedatives, quieted them while bigger hands obeyed his direction, monitored the healing over the next days— calves normally adapted well and with nothing more than short term soreness. He would never allow its  _ use _ so soon, while it was raw and tender—

He would  _ never  _ allow this. Not to the lowest of his charges.

Fury numbed him to Mother’s grip, and he attempted to throw her only to be countered and pressed to the wall, vision filled with her furious eyes. “Mother—“

“I am Talia,” she snapped coldly. “I am the Hand. You  _ dare _ defy me?”

He… did not.

“To the arena,” she said to the minders.

When she dropped him, the prisoner was being forced to his feet. He was clearly blinded by the Pit, eyes dark and savage, but overwhelmed by the ring nonetheless.

Damian cringed at several days worth of bruises and cuts— he’d been badly roughed. Trusting the minders— and Mother— to handle the prisoner as he would was a foolish mistake. One he must rectify.

He straightened to his tallest height, strongest voice, and looked Mother in the eye. “I am the Heir.  _ I  _ care for the prisoner, and _ I _ say he is not fit. Return him to the cell.”

The minders paused and looked to Mother.

She glared at Damian, but raised her hand for them to stop. “Oh? You will go in his place?”

That was acceptable. After all, the chickens had been  _ his _ job until a few days ago. “I will.”

She nodded to the minders. “To a more  _ comfortable  _ cell,” she said. “Very well, my son. If you wish an opportunity to prove your worth, I will grant it.”

Damian should have suspected then that it would  _ not  _ be chickens. 

He was pitted against the smallest of their revived targets— female, wrapped in black as all the target ninja were. 

“Not to worry, my son,” said Mother. “Should your skill be found lacking, the Lazarus Pit will accelerate your training.”

A thrill of fear shot through him. He stamped it down and refocused. Just because he’d never faced a  _ truly  _ deadly opponent before was not reason to lose confidence. He knew how to kill. He had done it hundreds of times. He’d trained every day for the purpose of reaching a killing stroke. This was no different.

And it wasn’t. The swipes and feints were textbook, nothing he couldn’t have handled a month into his combat regimen. By now, he’d far surpassed her in skill, and his trepidation melted.

Until her headwear came unwrapped.

He recognized her face, newly shaded by white bangs— an assassin that had been in the sly habit of bringing him gifts of exotic, plastic-wrapped contraband sweets whenever she returned from an assignment. He hadn’t seen her for a while.

Now he knew why.

But she was changed by the Pit, and his hesitation meant nothing to her diminished mind. A blade narrowly missed his gut, swiping through his thigh instead, before he regained control and let muscle memory take over. The vulnerable neck of a human was not much different than that of a goat, in the end.

The dying eyes of a  _ person,  _ however, were not the same. Not up close, not with human blood hot across his own skin.

A few seconds of cognizance cleared her distant gaze as the blood pumped out, almost as if she recognized Damian. Which was impossible, resurrects couldn’t even  _ speak— _

_ “P-please,”  _ she gurgled, but the clarity faded quickly as her body convulsed and the blood slowed to an ooze.

Damian stared until it was over.

Then he vomited.

Talia would be displeased at that. He didn’t need to be told. So he wiped his mouth and limped out instead of waiting for the censure. He’d done the task with poor performance. Avoiding her was best until he could devise a way to regain his honor.

He wrapped the leg up himself. It probably warranted a healer, but  _ he  _ was the prisoner’s healer, and the needs of the Body were before his own. He retrieved the kit he kept for animal injury and illness.

Talia intercepted him as he was descending into the caverns.

He waited in silence, wondering if she meant to impart her lesson by the force of her glare alone, before she cupped his cheek and said simply: 

“You would do well to remember who  _ your  _ masters are, beloved.”

Noted.

She let him pass. 

The prisoner was not in any of the cells, human or animal, nor in the arena. Anxiety that he’d inadvertently gotten the prisoner killed grew with every empty location, a fear that only spiked when he finally located him.

A loitering prison minder attracted Damian to the slaughtering area. He spent a fair amount of time here, either putting down goats for the leopards or supervising the killing of animals meant for the table— he’d found that not all servants could be trusted to quickly stun the animal senseless prior to killing, and the resultant suffering was nauseating to watch.

A thought of the ninja who brought him candy, twitching in a puddle of blood, shoved itself between his present worries. He swallowed and kept walking.

The minder was falling into step with him when he spotted the prisoner.

For several still moments he was sure the prisoner was dead— he was slumped in the bloodied corner of one of the bays equipped with a chain for hoisting large animals off the floor; it was looped through the nose ring and fastened with a lock.

The heavy footsteps of the minder roused the prisoner enough to look up, and Damian took a relieved breath. He was alive at least. However, the better light in this part of the cavern revealed more damage. Both eyes were blackened over his bruised and bloody nose; lip split open and coated in dry blood from the chin down; bruises and cuts splattered all over his bare chest. None of those stopped him from snarling up at the minder and shakily clambering into a fighting stance. His breath was picking up and eyes were quickly reaching a feral boil.

Damian frowned and dismissed the looming minder. There would be no helping the prisoner with an obvious threat present. Even so, it took nearly a quarter of an hour for the primal response to abate. Damian sat on the floor, making himself as benign as possible and meditating to the sound of the chain clinking across the stone while the inmate paced from one end to the other, over and over.

When he finally subsided, Damian opened his eyes to find the prisoner staring blankly at him.

Damian stood heavily— his leg had stiffened on the cool floor. “I must see to your injuries,” he said quietly. “Be still or I will restrain you.”

Green eyes flashed in affrontement. “And if I restrain  _ you?  _ You might be a good bartering chip,” the prisoner mused, lip curling.

He shrugged, unperturbed. “Doubtful. Were you to kill me, you would be killed in turn, and it would be the Pit for us both.”

The dark glare faded. With defeat he sagged against the wall, using it for support as he slid to the floor. He flopped a hand in silent acquiescence.

The prisoner was silent but for the occasional hitch of breath as Damian cleaned the cuts; eyes far away and overtaxed body limp. Out of habit, he murmured soothing words meant to offset the discomfort as he worked. Animals tended to have only so much patience for pain, and it was in everyone’s best interests to make it go as far as possible.

He frowned at the ribs quickly gaining definition without food. “Starving yourself will make you sick,” he chided.

A slight huff was the only reply.

When the minor cuts were treated and covered, he turned his attention to the nose and felt another glint of anger. They had made a mess of it, scratching and tearing the sensitive skin in addition to at least partially breaking his nose as they fought to get an awl and accompanying ring through the cartilage. He felt a level of guilt, as well— he was responsible for the prisoner’s care, and if he had been present perhaps he could have at least mitigated the pain.

“This should not have happened,” he said, inspecting the damage.

“No shit,” the prisoner muttered nasally. He watched Damian paw through his medical supplies warily, leaning away in alarm when he revealed a needle and reached for his face. “Oh  _ hell  _ no,” he snapped. 

“It’s painkiller,” Damian said impatiently.

“Do you  _ want _ me to murder you? ‘Cause if you touch me with that, I’m  _ going to murder you,”  _ he growled.

Damian sighed. After consideration, he was allowed to gingerly apply a topical analgesic to the area. It wouldn’t do much for the deeper pain, but it might make treatment more bearable.

The prisoner ran his tongue over his split lip while Damian was carefully cleaning the fresh wound. “Hey,” he said quietly. “Can you… get this thing out?”

“Even if I thought you wouldn’t attempt escape, which would be _moronic,”_ he replied, “I cannot. It is meant to be permanent.”

Wincing, the prisoner rested his head against the wall. “Eh. It was worth a shot.”

By the time Damian had cleaned and salved what he could, the prisoner’s eyes were closed and he was breathing deeply. He only stirred at the sound of supplies being packed away.

Damian left briefly to collect a few things, namely food and water, bedding, a bucket, and a tunic— this area was too cold to live shirtless in.

The prisoner lit up gratefully at the tunic, which opened in front so as not to be obstructed by the chain. “Thanks,” he muttered, fastening it and looking up at Damian. The gratitude flashed into concern. “Kid,” he said suddenly. “You’re bleeding.”

Damian glanced down and scowled at the dark spot spreading over his leg. He’d have to reapply the bandage, which was greatly inconvenient. With his charges all seen to, he just wanted to go to bed and sleep.

The prisoner put his hand out. “Here. Give me the med kit.”

Damian narrowed his eyes. “What?”

He beckoned with his hand. “Give me the kit, and I’ll take a look.” When Damian didn’t move, he sighed. “Come on. It’s only fair.”

This was stupid. Mother would  _ not  _ approve. But she was not one to hover, and she’d already said her piece. She would assume Damian had cared for it, a self-sufficiency that may appease her somewhat.

And he wanted to be  _ done. _

Cautiously, Damian handed the kit over and sat down, rolling his loose pant leg up past the injury and the soaked bandage. Dried drip lines ran all the way to his foot.

The prisoner frowned and then hissed when the bandage came off. “This  _ really  _ needs stitches.”

Damian shrugged. He hadn’t had the time.

He raised his eyebrows and winced when the movement pulled at his bruised eyes. “I mean, I  _ can  _ stitch it up, it’ll just be ugly as hel…  _ heck.” _

Now that Damian was sitting down with nothing occupying his hands, his eyes were drooping. The fresh pallet he’d brought the prisoner was starting to look attractive, but sleeping in a slave’s bed was unbecoming of the Heir. “It does not matter.”

The prisoner turned back to the injury and cleared his throat as he was wiping the blood away. “You got a name, kid?”

Damian hesitated. Servants, slaves and  _ especially  _ prisoners were to address him by a title, if they were to address him at all. He was remiss in allowing ‘ _ kid.’ _

But there was no one around.

“Damian,” he said finally.

The prisoner nodded. “Damian. Mine’s Jason.”

He breathed through the sting of cold antiseptic. “I see. Are you here for the Golden Fleece?”

Jason glanced up with a thin smile.  _ “Heh.  _ You an Argonauts fan?”

“Tt. Everyone—” he sucked a sharp breath at a burst of pain. “—knows the myth.”

Jason frowned at him, quiet for several moments. “... How are you with needles?”

Damian rolled his eyes. “Tt.  _ You’re  _ afraid of needles, not me.”

Jason shrugged, reading a label on a syringe. “I can dish it out, I just can’t take it. Ready?”

He nodded and tried to hide his tension as the needle entered. The delay in treatment had allowed painful swelling to rise, and it didn’t take favorably to being impaled.

Jason withdrew the needle and pressed a piece of gauze to his skin. “Sorry,” he said quietly, and rested his other hand on Damian’s knee to wait for the painkiller to take effect.

Both of them were chilled, but the touch was warm.

Something unexpectedly wrenched in Damian’s chest. Which was stupid— he wasn’t a baby. Anyway, he was well cared for. He had the best of anything in Nanda Parbat, including a multitude of servants at his disposal and any of them would have apologized for the same, his healer included.

Jason gently prodded around the gash. “Feel that?”

Damian shook his head. He attributed the twinge of emotion to a long and stressful day, nothing more.

Two sutures in, Jason broke the silence. “So. How, uh… how’d you get this battlescar?” 

He snorted. “Battle,” Damian said dryly. Obviously.

The skeptical glance was very irritating. “Uh-huh. How’d that go.”

Damian scowled.  _ Not thinking about it _ was easier when he wasn’t being raked for details. However, this was a good opportunity to impress his power upon the prisoner. “I killed my opponent.”

Jason stopped suturing and studied him closer, though it was hard to tell if his eyes narrowed or if that was just the swelling.

Good. He’d secured Jason’s attention, and a heightened energy prodded him into elaborating. “I cut her throat,” he said, but it came out hoarse. He’d cut her throat. While looking her in the eye. “Like an animal.” His whole body went numb, like blood turned to anesthetic. He wasn’t sure why he said what he did next, or why his voice turned wet and broken in the middle, but the truth just slipped out. “I’ve never had to do that before.”

“Jesus,” murmured Jason. He carefully put his suture down and stared at the floor. “That’s… messed up.” He looked Damian up and down. “You hurt anywhere else?”

Of course not. He wasn’t  _ that  _ incompetent, even if he’d been momentarily distracted by her face. The face that he liked seeing, because it meant candy that he could keep secret from Mother. The one that wouldn’t bring him any ever again. Because…

A breath jerked out of him, and he angrily stifled it. No. He couldn’t cry, he wasn’t an infant—

“Hey, it’s okay, kid. I’m not blaming you.” Jason cautiously offered his hand. 

Damian harshly pushed him away. He was fine.

Jason showed his palm appeasingly and leaned back, away from the war twisting Damian’s face. The other hand was still on his knee, weighty and grounding. “Okay. Easy,” he said quietly. “I gotta finish this. Try to relax, alright?”

Mother would probably disown him for deferring to the prisoner. He was  _ master.  _ Jason owed him, owed the Demon, for taking him in and restoring him. The Demon was his savior. He was in its infinite debt, as small and powerless as an ant underfoot.

Damian felt even smaller. 

The distant tugging coming from his leg, the unhesitating but careful pressure, eventually silenced his thoughts.

His eyes drifted closed.

  
  


In his seventh year, Damian al Ghul learned conscription.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damian: Don't you know who I AM  
> Jason: You're a little sh-- brat, that's who


	3. The Golden Fleece: Endurance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snakes! Why'd it have to be snakes?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. It's been a Bad Time. Everybody else out there self-medicating with fanfic, coffee, and bizarre sleep schedules... this one's for you.

Damian al Ghul was in his eighth year when he learned  _ endurance.  _

The serum glowed faintly green. Mother turned her back, leaving him to his humiliation. 

Again. He would have to take the bite again. Climb again.  _ Suffer  _ again.

The syringe in his hand was supposed to save his life. It felt like a death sentence. 

There was someone else who needed his attention before he could turn to himself. He staggered into the caverns.

The _tasaluq_ _althueban_ stood as a rite of passage for all members of the Hand. It was self-eliminating— the induction ceremony was survival. Rejection was understood in terms of death.

Damian had been confident in his ability to succeed. He’d taken Mount Parbat as a very young boy and a number of times since. He’d trained to endure a high level of pain. He’d studied mastery over his body’s biological functions. His superior advantage over every applicant before him was almost laughable.

Nothing quite prepared him for facing the viper.

His assumption prior to this dark morning in the blue shadow of the mountain was that there was some prescribed  _ location  _ to receive the bite. That there would be a handler whose sole purpose in life was to administer said bite via the snake in a very precise and dignified manner.

Instead, Mother presented him with a woven basket.

“You may proceed with the bite,” she said. “Then you must retrieve the token from the peak.”

A calculated decision, then. Not legs, or he would never make it to the top. Not hands, or he might render one permanently useless. Not his core, or some vital may give out.

Frowning, he presented the thickest part of his forearm to the snake.

The sand-toned scales twitched as it coiled tight, refusing to oblige.

Mother was impatient. He felt a prickle of embarrassment at the delay and tapped the basket with his foot. It jerked, perhaps with thought to escape, but there was nowhere to run. Another rough tap, and the slitted eyes emerged.

Damian shoved his arm closer, and even  _ expecting  _ the strike, he flinched away in surprise, checking his arm for a bite and finding it clean.

“Again,” Mother snapped.

Paranoia that she could somehow detect the racing of his heart distracted him as he hesitantly lowered his arm back into the basket. He couldn’t fail before he even started.

The viper was ready this time.

Fangs pierced skin, in and out faster than the eye could see. If not for the molten shock of pain he might have doubted it even occurred.

Mother observed the marks with approval and stepped away. “Make us proud, Damian.”

It hit him then that he was already wasting time, standing around like a lost lamb. He gave a sharp nod and turned onto the rocky path.

Adrenaline made the first three hundred feet of elevation or so easy. The pain was readily put aside in favor of concentrating on covering ground. Thinking about pain or illness was a pastime of the weak.

When he got off the mountain, he’d claim his place in the Shadows.  _ Over  _ the Shadows. He would have one more victory under his belt proving his worthiness of the Demon. Mother’s pride. Grandfather’s approval.

Maybe this would be the win that would make Father materialize from the ether, to present even a taste of his birthright.

Mother described Father as a shrewd mind and a mighty warrior.

That was  _ all  _ she would describe.

Damian made educated guesses. Father was someone of power, obviously, both socially and physically. Perhaps lighter eyed than Mother. Tall. He pictured a dark beard framing a lofty expression, and a look of satisfaction for his son.

Such thoughts carried him to the peak, through collecting all six banners, back down sheer faces, all the way until a loose rock sent him tumbling.

The stabbing pain of the bite didn’t stop him from springing to his feet.

But it did slacken his grip just enough for wind to tear one of the banners free and instantly out of reach, hundreds of feet above the lower slopes in seconds.

Damian stared after it in helpless shock. Unless he sprouted wings, it was  _ gone.  _ His only chance was to track it down further along the descent, nevermind that it had already disappeared from sight.

A slight edge of panic rushed him forward. Searching would cost precious time, and ignoring the throbbing of his arm was already becoming a monumental task. But if he returned without it…

That didn’t bear contemplation. He pressed on, picking a route that would bring him closer to where the banner might have settled. Without a path the going was arduous. Every stumble weakened him, but there was no stopping. Hours blurred by in a breathless haze, descent becoming a frantic— and fruitless— search. It was nowhere to be found, and his vision swam in time to his heartbeat, a matching throb in his arm and into his chest, up his neck.

If he didn’t return now, he would die.

Panting, he turned a slow, hopeless circle. From here he could see the place he started. If he lingered any longer, it wouldn’t matter if he found the banner or not— the distance would be too great to cover in time.

Frustration stung his eyes. Neither option was appealing.

But one option suggested a potential second chance.

He turned home.

Mother’s disappointment at an incomplete task was more searing than the snakebite.

Jason bolted out of his doze when the vial went clattering across the stone floor. The green haze of adrenaline sharpened when he saw who had fallen just paces from the cell, but that’s all Damian registered before his heavy head drooped.

It had been so long since he could  _ stop. _

Chains crackled. “ _ Kid?” _

Leaning his forehead on the cold floor, he waited for enough strength to find his feet, see to Jason, see to himself. He let it pull him down onto his side with a promise of hastened recovery. The stone siphoned the fever, chilled his sweat. Hard but kind.

“Holy shit— hey.  _ Hey.  _ Damian.”

No one makes sure Jason has what he needs but Damian. That’s the order of the Hand. If he can’t get up, what will happen to him?

“Dammit, talk to me, is this an antidote? I can’t—  _ fuck,  _ I can’t reach you, I—  _ Hey! Need help over here!”  _

If Damian can’t get up, there’s nothing between Jason and the Hand. No one to mitigate its clawed grip.

Jason was straining at the end of his chain, reaching toward Damian with a foot. A thin line of blood dripped from his nose, eyes clenched shut. “Goddamn…  _ dogcatchers—  _ fuckin’ useless _ bastards—“ _

Damian’s knees balked at taking his weight again. He was spent. Weak.  _ Done. _

“No you don’t, you little shit— you’re Prince of the Underworld, you don’t get to give up—“

He managed to draw his legs up, and to  _ push— _

It was all he had left.

——

The dull, distant sound of tapping pierced the darkness before the sharp sensation breaking on his cheek.

_ “—for a second and tell me if this shit is  _ **_the antidote—“_ **

His lips cracked when he tried to open his mouth.

_ “— with me? Damian?” _

_ “Yes,”  _ he rasped, or tried— he couldn’t differentiate the sand in his throat from sound.  _ “Ant—antidote. Yes.” _

“Hold on, Dami—“

A pinch, then a meteoric scream of  _ pain. _

——

The tearing, raw assertion of a fresh wound had matured into the wrath of a taut, clenching ache by the time he regained awareness. It was not paralyzing but it was  _ intolerable,  _ like a firebrand pressed into flesh, searing all the way down into his soul—

No sound escaped his gritted teeth. Being helpless was bad enough without attracting an ambitious enemy to hasten his end. Even if a failure like him deserved nothing less.

A whisper came low but clear. “Easy... You’re okay.”

Jason. No one else would presume to coddle him so.

Particularly not in English.

Clammy sweat caught at the rough skin slowly grazing his forehead. “Hear me, kid? What’s the secret word to get one of your thugs in here with some painkiller?”

Throat raw, he choked on a scoff until a soaked rag was pressed to his lips.

“Here— just take a little bit.”

He sucked a few drops of water from the corner, enough to unstick his palate and part his eyelids. Not enough to smooth his croaking voice. “Won’t… come. Orders.”

Jason’s haggard eyes were narrowed with concern, but he refrained from comment for a change. He was crouched such that anyone looking in wouldn’t see Damian immediately, just the prisoner half-lying in the corner, facing away.

Fabric bound up the good arm— he dare not even attempt to move the other, sure that upsetting it would only spur in greater pain. Instead he ground his bare heel into the floor, feeling rough weave underneath and trying to focus on its lesser sting, get his bearings. Jason’s pallet, and… the spare tunic he’d brought to maintain some illusion of the prisoner’s personal hygiene.

So, the cell, wrapped in Jason’s spare tunic with the pallet under him, and he’d apparently been injected with the antidote. That his mother abandoned him with. 

And tomorrow, he would have to repeat the _tasaluq_ _althueban._

It wasn’t agonized moaning if it was soundless. 

“...I’m here, kid. I’m right here.”

Mother wouldn’t come. This was his punishment and retraining in one, to make him learn endurance in the face of isolation and suffering, to make him learn to pursue the Hand’s goals at all costs... or to die trying.

But he’d come to Jason, and now he’d somehow forfeited his position of power to find himself in the humiliating position of lying in a slave’s bed, weak and at a lesser man’s mercy. The honorable thing would be to rebuke his prisoner, demand he withdraw and show him due deference.

A hot spear ripped through his arm, through his chest— he couldn’t stop the sharp gasp from giving him away.

Jason’s face came back into focus, dirt-lined and unshaven. “I think the antidote was a Lazarus cocktail,” he said grimly. “I know it hurts like hell, but I swear you’ll be alright. You just have to ride it out, okay?”

_ For how long,  _ Damian wanted to ask. Would he be climbing Mount Parbat with it? Carrying the pain of old failure on top of new poison?

Was it worth it for an inheritance he might never be good enough for?

“Hey. Breathe.”

Especially with letting a  _ prisoner  _ tell him what to do.

Oxygen just fueled the fire. He traded it in short, stuttering sobs, starving the embers as much as he could, but it wasn’t enough. He wasn’t enough.

Pressure carefully worked under his shoulders, lifted his head a little and pressed him into a warm hold. Jason. An attack? Or an embrace?

“I got you, kid,” he said, not a whisper but low and soft. The unfamiliar vibration under Damian’s ear secured his whole attention, like a rare peal of thunder rolling across the desert. “Relax.”

Somehow the arms pressing him to Jason’s chest made it easier to breathe, not harder, even though being so close he could smell stale sweat and mildew. A series of memories flitted through his mind— Mother’s recoil after his passing through the kitchens or the forage storehouse, her admonition to bathe or change, to strip any hint of curry or sweet grain scent from his skin. Scrubbing himself raw in hopes that if his performance warranted a pleased touch of her hand or a kiss to his hair, she would find no reason to withhold it.

But satisfactory performance was so seldom without the heady tang of blood.

Even if he had descended with all six ribbons, faster than anyone ever had before, Mother would have stood apart from his earthy dust, his sweat tinged with mountain jasmine and cactus bloom. She would move on quickly, holding him up to a fresh debt of expectation by the time he was presentable and worthy of her endearment.

Even if the stars aligned and she favored him with a stroke to his cheek or a caress of his shoulder, never would Mother gather him up like this, leave herself vulnerable and undefended. Not even the bond between mother and child was enough to warrant baring soft underbellies to the possibility of a dagger’s bite.

_ If they are close enough to touch, they are close enough to kill,  _ she’d say.

A bitter crush of anguish sank claws in alongside the venom’s pounding. Curling tight onto his side did nothing to keep his lungs from becoming stone or stop the mute sob.

He’d never be enough. Even if he passed the second trial, even if he was a Shadow, even if he measured up to his father— there would always be more room to fail.

A hand splayed between his quaking shoulder blades, steadying him while Jason shifted onto his own side, tucked Damian under his chin and into the hollow of his body. His arms tightened. “It’s alright now, buddy. You’re okay.”

His next intake of breath betrayed him with an audible sniffle, but Jason didn’t push him away. Instead he pressed the heel of his hand down Damian’s back in slow stripes, gradually loosening muscles so tight they quivered.

The pain, both physical and mental, he could withstand. He trained for that every day, accepted it as a fact of life.

But the unadulterated  _ relief  _ of a benign but unflinching contact tore his control to shreds.

Tears were to be shunned as a weakness, a fault to be rooted out. Younger days were spent alone or in altercation until he learned self-control. Mother did not abide weeping because no enemy would. It was the way of things.

None of that could curb his coarse tears now, or prevent him from grounding his good hand in Jason’s tunic, or interrupt the soothing strokes of a man that had every reason to hate him but didn’t.

“I know it sucks,” Jason murmured, and the sound filled some of the hollow ache. “It hurts and it kicks you while you’re down. But you’re gonna get through it, alright? I’ll be here.”

Damian swallowed back another sob and just barely nodded into Jason’s chest, the confusion and pain and disappointment already welling back up in an unbearable wave.

The pressure easing into his shoulder deepened, encouraging him to sink into it. “You know your mythology, right?”

Damian grunted. He had much more important things on his mind, but if the segue kept Jason talking he would tolerate it.

“How about the one with the sailors,” Jason continued.

Apparently a reply was expected. Damian heaved a shaky sigh.  _ “...The Odyssey?” _

“No, not  _ Odysseus,  _ nobody cares about that loser,” Jason said, but he sounded more amused than biting. Teasing. “I’m talking about Jason and His Bitches.”

Damian rolled his eyes, even though the gesture couldn’t be seen and it probably wasn’t very effective with tear tracks anyway.  _ “Tt.” _

“Hey. Jason was practically an orphan, raised by a horse-man— in a  _ cave,  _ by the way—  __ and he still turned out badass enough to get an all star squad on his boat.”

“Odysseus,” Damian muttered, words sticky,  _ “was  _ taught... by Chiron.”

“Yeah, okay, an eternity  _ later—“ _

“Achilles,” Damian interrupted. “Theseus. Perseus. Cas…” An echoing pang made him pause, bracing his shoulders against the spasm. “Castor... P-Pollux….”

Jason’s voice lowered appeasingly, smoothing the building tension away with his thumb.  _ “Fine, _ you little smartass. I get it, don’t hurt yourself.”

The rhythmic movement, the resonant sound, the sensation of a warm, strong human holding him and keeping him safe— in the privacy of his mind, he need not claim otherwise— all so close, directed only to him… he exhaled. 

Jason took a deep breath of his own.

_ “Anyway:  _ Jason, the Argonauts, and the Golden Fleece. Buckle up.”

—— 

Damian wasn’t sure when he dozed off. Sometime after the unceasing misery in his body and his soul surrendered to shared body heat and soft retellings.

But an unceremonious, stomach turning  _ lurch  _ woke him.

He’d been hauled off the floor when Jason rolled to his feet, secure arms now a crushing trap. When his dizzied vision cleared, he realized that Mother and several prison minders stood at the threshold.

Displeasure ruled her expression. “Release him.”

Jason’s voice was dark and clipped, not directed to her but to Damian. “What’s she want with you, kid.”

“The Trial,” he rasped. “I must try again.”

The hold tightened until he could barely breathe. “The snake bite?” Jason demanded.

Damian nodded, wincing. His body had recovered except for a lingering fatigue, but his mind was still unsteady. He could force himself through the climb. But the desire to do so was admittedly thready.

“At  _ once,”  _ repeated Mother, vexed. Probably at Damian’s foolishness more than the prisoner’s audacity.

_ “Go fuck yourself,”  _ Jason snarled, vicious and feral.

The black look Mother leveled at her son was chilling. He knew where she lay the blame for whatever happened now.

Excising Jason from the conversation was as easy as returning to her mother tongue. <<Your prisoner courts death. Do you?>>

<<A moment,>> Damian bit out. “Let go,” he commanded Jason. “I must regain my honor.”

The huff of derision shook them both. “Nothing honorable about torturing little kids, last  _ I _ checked.”

Mother’s eyes narrowed impatiently, the minders alert to her signal. “They will kill you, and I will  _ still  _ repeat the Trial. Don’t be a fool.”

Jason could see them shifting too. “You’re  _ done _ with this kid,” he growled at them. “If you need somebody to torment, take  _ me.” _

One slender eyebrow twitched. Her next question was posed with an air of foregone conclusion. <<What say you, my son? Will you accept shame and send your slave to repay his transgression, or will you bring honor to your name and commit him to immediate execution?>>

A long, speechless moment passed while Damian fought to process the choice. Jason’s breathing was ragged— he was ready for a fight, probably sinking into the influence of the Lazarus pit. “Damian,” he breathed, “it’s not worth it.”

Damian knew he hadn’t understood a word or he would be aware of how  _ useless  _ that statement was, how unable to reconcile a lifetime of building dignity and spending every waking second attempting to earn his place, win the role of Demon’s Head,  _ meet his father _ , with the only kind human warmth he could remember.

Mother frowned. He was supposed to pick  _ climb. _ He was supposed to pick  _ kill.  _

He couldn’t.

The words felt distant, numb on his lips. <<He will go in my stead. I…>> He had to steel himself. This meant life for his prisoner, and all but death for him. <<I accept shame.>>

Outrage and grief twisted Mother’s face before the wall slammed down. <<Command him,>> she said coldly.

The look put ice in his veins. “Jason,” he said flatly. “Go. Complete the Trial.”

There was hesitation in his grip. “Swear that Damian won’t have to go through that again, and I’ll go.”

Damian closed his eyes to the flinch of indignance his name in a slave’s mouth gave Mother. “...Very well,” she said finally. “Come.  _ Now.” _

Jason’s hold loosened, leaving Damian’s ribs aching. They shared only a moment’s glance as his feet hit the floor, melancholic but determined, and that’s all there was until the poles snapped into the nose ring and he was led away. Jason was gone before he could say anything,  _ thank you  _ or  _ goodbye  _ or  _ make me proud. _

Jason left a thermal vacuum behind that only Damian and Talia stood in, any bond frozen and brittle.

In his eighth year, Damian al Ghul learned survival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why, yes, Jason and Damian's involvement in 'Hisstamines' does have something to do with this experience...


End file.
